A/N: I hope you enjoy the less choppy, plot-line tweaked, and somewhat improved version. This part is still rooted in the Castle Universe, but I like to think of it as the 'dark matter' that could have been discovered between seasons 2 and 3. Life returns to normal, or does it?
Disclaimer: I do not own Castle – all credit goes to Andrew Marlow and the writing team for ABC's Castle; my thanks to them for providing a foundation for this little exercise.
7
'Summertime . . . and the living is easy' sang Clara, the young wife of a local fisherman, as a new mother would sing a lullaby to her baby. Porgy & Bess has had its share of rebirths on Broadway and yetanother reworked version of this Gershwin classic opera had come to Broadway; this time, two well-known local actors were in the lead roles. It was playing at the Richard Rogers Theater on West 46th Street. But for actors, and for anyone else holding a job in NYC during the summer, the living was not so easy. With the pedestrian traffic swollen to many times its average by the influx of tourists, and those wishing to attend one event, street festival, or another, travelling anywhere could become as oppressive as the heat.
Early June had arrived, and with it had come the first mini-heatwave of the season. One couldn't just pretend it was spring anymore. With the schools and colleges having finished the bulk of their spring semesters and graduation ceremonies, the feeling of summertime in NYC could not be avoided. All if its trappings had arrived; but it was becoming obvious to everyone in the 12th that Castle was gone – not the kind of I'm gone but then suddenly appear two weeks later just to see how everyone was doing. Rather like, really gone for good. Beckett and the homicide team remained at work; except for the excused absences that constituted a long weekend or a full-blown vacation. Any time off that they could get was always well deserved. Even Captain Montgomery found a week to take off. While he was gone the precinct's second in command, Ed Whitefield would be in charge. Lieutenant Ed Whitefield was getting near retirement. He too was good at his job and his performance record had saved him from a couple of cut-backs and mandatory retirement programs over the last few years. At his station in life he had no desire to move up to Captain, even if was for only a year or two since the change in rank really did not translate into any significant change in retirement benefits. Whitefield was certainly no Dr. Sidney Perlmutter, but he did have his moments. He didn't relate well to the younger members of the force whether they were uniformed officers or detectives. He especially wondered how someone like Detective Beckett bothered to stay in such a rough line of work. Not that he didn't approve of women on the job; it was just that according to his reasoning, after seeing a thousand crime scenes, wouldn't they rather move on to something a little more soothing to the soul? He figured the reason anyone stayed on the job more than five to ten years was that they either just plain got off on it somehow; liked power over innocent people, felt they had something to prove, or were hiding from something or somebody. Right then he had other more important things to think about. There was going to be a rally of some kind in Central park on the upcoming weekend, starting that Friday afternoon. It had been estimated that some 1,200 uniformed officers would be needed for crowd control either at the park or the near environs.
No single precinct could muster that many uniforms. Lieutenant Whitefield had been collaborating with several precincts in order to come up with a staffing plan. The NYPD was certainly no stranger to such a drill. Anyone who had ever watched TV on New Year's Eve knew about the legendary crowds that filled Times Square for those festivities. Anywhere from half a million and up would gather for the event annually. The venue for 4th of July was notable; as was Central Park. Lieutenant Whitefield let his mind wander back to some of his early days on the force. Just two years before Detective Beckett was born; a former US Congressman for the state of NY had found himself successfully elected as mayor of NYC. It was to be the first of three consecutive terms for the feisty, blunt-spoken, and even theatrical mayor Ed Koch. Mayor Koch was controversial, and antagonistic to many minority groups, but never dull. He had a passion for making NYC a great city – a real challenge if there ever was one. He had done many good things in favor of the NYPD and some not so popular things further along the way.
Back in the latter part of the 1970's, Central Park was not a pretty place. It had become severely overused and run down. It needed a serious make over, a healthy maintenance budget, and some good management if it was to have a hope for the future. At one point in his first term, Ed Koch had paradoxically suggested that Central park might just as well be scrapped and closed permanently – or at least that was what some sources reported. Crowds, Koch, and Central Park funding all came together one Saturday night in September of 1981. The Parks Department had estimated maybe an attendance of some three hundred thousand, based on former figures for other performers, but the reunion of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel for the event drew a crowd of more than five hundred thousand; and it probably would have been even more if had not rained all that afternoon leading up to the performance. Both the Parks Commissioner and the concert promoter were thrilled with the turn out. It was a free concert, but the money that came from the local merchandising sales, the broadcasting, and video rights was going into the park restoration budget. Not all the attendees were thrilled with Mayor Koch. After a couple of songs, Paul Simon looked out into the crowd and intoned:
"Well it's great to do a neighborhood concert . . ."
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause. He then thanked the police department, the fire department, the park administration and finally Ed Koch. The audience booed, but just moments later they applauded again as Simon continued and the irony in his reference became clear.
"Wow! We seemed to have filled the place . . .," he had said with wonderment at a later point in the performance.
Even bigger crowds followed in later years. The anti-nuclear rally in 1982 boasted three quarters of a million at least. In 1983, Diana Ross was said to have topped over eight hundred thousand for that crowd. Similar things had been going on every year since then. Lieutenant Whitefield was still a young uniformed officer on the force back then and it was one of his first assignments with a really large crowd. He viewed this upcoming event as a blessing in disguise for the department. These things were a managerial nightmare for the precinct captains, but they also provided great experience for the younger members on the force; and the opportunity to see how effective and resourceful the rookies and their mentors would prove to be. It was a good chance to determine what combinations of resources were working well together and the ones that were not. Whitefield only hoped there wouldn't be any incidents that might generate negative press for the department.
NYC, The Big Apple, the city that never sleeps – it only appears that way to the outsider; certainly a large portion of the city does sleep or at least tries to. But there is a reason for all the night activity besides parties, clubs, or those bent on committing crimes of some kind. The precinct Captain and the Lieutenant usually had the day watch but remained on call for any big emergency. They handled this on a rotational basis. So, here's what happens when an urban center is scaled up; literally tens of thousands of people are up at night out of necessity. The city needs maintenance; night shift is when that takes place. Sanitation workers make their rounds with the grinding noises of garbage trucks at 2:00 AM being a normal activity. The night time orchestra is rounded out by legions of transit workers, road and utility repair workers; not to mention all those whose jobs are part of twenty-four-hour services such as hospital workers, and restaurant and hotel staff, so logically, it all adds up. They need their equivalent of a 'lunch break', so who in turn feeds them? The place never appears to sleep. There is always traffic going somewhere; hungry folks are looking for a meal somewhere; someone returning home from somewhere. The subway system runs late. Taxis run all the time; and so does the NYPD. Night shift uniforms are always needed somewhere to direct traffic away from night-work zones; to keep people out of places they shouldn't be; and to arrest those who are doing things they shouldn't be doing.
The 12th precinct was just one little atoll amid the huge backdrop of NYC and the NYPD, of which it was a part. There were about eighty precincts in total. The department had a huge inventory of personnel and equipment which needed constant maintenance, updating, and tracking. At any given time, there might be anywhere from 8,500 – 9,000 police patrol cars used to cover twelve separate transit districts. They had about a dozen police boats, and at least six or more helicopters. Then there was the menagerie. They had about a hundred to one hundred twenty trained police horses at any given time; a real feat to maintain when the operation is in the middle of a city. Anywhere from two to three dozen German shepherds and their handlers were on the staff; and several bloodhounds were in reserve for those cases where a manhunt would ensue. Sorry, no cats on the roster, unless of course someone sneaked one in as a precinct mascot.
Lieutenant Whitefield mentally returned to the task at hand. Uniforms, dogs, and helicopters were on his mind as he descended to the first floor for a logistics meeting. He and personnel from other precincts up in North Manhattan were meeting with his pledged group of uniformed officers. One of the major discussions was how to get emergency response vehicles in and out of certain sections of the park. The details were being made available to all the 911 dispatchers that could possibly be involved with that zone of the city. The meeting and its related conference calls lasted about two hours.
With all of the activity on the first floor, the fourth floor of the precinct had become unusually quiet for a normal day shift. Of course, Kate had seen it this empty during some of her after hours work, but to have it like this during daylight hours made it seem eerie. In the distance she could see only a few desk clerks down at the extreme end still at their work. Ryan and Esposito were out of the office, running down some leads on the latest case, as were about six other detectives and their assistants regarding their respective cases. Lanie had already spent the better part of the morning and the late afternoon the day before with a particularly difficult post mortem examination. She wasn't expected back out in public any time soon. The interrogation box was empty for the moment. A processing clerk and two additional uniforms were still on duty at the entrance to the holding cells. Someone was looking for something in the break room; and that was about it. Kate's gaze stopped at the empty chair still in place at the left side of her desk. Unofficially it was Castle's chair. As she gazed at it, a feeling of heaviness came upon her, defying description and the near silence, near emptiness of the office, only amplified it. The background buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights became annoyingly loud. She continued to stare blankly at the vacant spot for a few more seconds and then shifted her attention back to her paperwork.
The logistics plan had been adequately worked out to everyone's satisfaction. Lieutenant Whitefield made his way back up to the fourth floor using the center stairwell. He continued down the short hallway and turned into the homicide department area, then made his way toward Detective Beckett's desk. The precinct's office design was still locked between a 1950's to late 1970's concept. Most of it consisted of desks, arranged in semi-clusters, among open spaces – the 'bull pen' as most folks called it. Those who merited private offices found these located on the outer walls. At least they had windows. They had more glass facing the bullpens on the opposite side. It was an unavoidable 'fishbowl' effect. Sound travelled well even though it had to find its way down the open corridors between the break room and multi-purpose rooms. Even Whitefield could hear things way across the whole building at times. When two or three active cases were going simultaneously, and Richard Castle was in on one of them with Beckett's team, things could get rather noisy down that way. Recently Whitefield had noted it was more like the city examiner's morgue. He decided to at least touch base with Detective Beckett. He made his way to the empty chair by her desk and took a seat. She was fully aware of his approach and gave him an inquiring look as he sat down.
"Good morning Lieutenant, what brings you here?" she asked.
"Just checking for signs of life down at this end of the office," he answered back.
She gave him the Kate Beckett 'so that's your next move', intense kind of look. No smart replies. She was respectful of his rank every bit as much as for Captain Montgomery.
"So where are we on that case for our vic . . . George Herbert Reeves?"
"Esposito is running down another possible lead right now . . . But so far nothing has popped in either his cell phone records or his financials."
The vic was a tow truck driver who had the sometimes dangerous job of collecting vehicles from people who would not or could not make their loan payments. The sight of a 'Repo Man' and his tow truck was not a welcome event. The case seemed routine; most likely an overly angry person, already pushed to his limits by several other bad events during the week, sees his last thing being taken from him. He makes his stand. No one is leaving with his car. But still, things were not adding up. The one most troubling was the excessive mileage logged on the tow truck between assigned pick-ups. Had it not been for that, it might have been an easy case. The team had already requested traffic-cam video files from two possible locations that covered that particular block where the repossession was to have taken place. Ryan was pinpointing the whereabouts of the car and its negligent owner. If those things fell into place someone was going to be cooked in that interrogation box for a possible confession statement, and then booked for murder before the end of the week. But the third piece did not fit cleanly.
"Any ideas?" urged the Lieutenant.
Kate could feel the frustration that came from a white board with still too much white showing on it; or maybe some red question marks still drawn near the motive column. What was worse in this particular case – there was not even a suspect in hand yet.
"Not a clue at present," she murmured.
They both sensed simultaneously where the conversation would go next. Whitefield thought back a couple of years to the time when Richard Castle had made his first appearance at the precinct. Detective Beckett was known by all the teams to be a master at deflecting 'wise ass' remarks and counter questions, especially from men; and at getting into the heads of suspects and persons of interest but Castle had given her a rough ride during their first rodeo. He had done more than that. He had pegged her life story somehow; all within an hour of ever having laid eyes on her. Castle had seen the same thing Whitefield had gathered. She was young and very attractive. She had been raised in Manhattan by wealthy and influential parents. He had gathered that by her lack of an accent saying 'well you're not bridge or tunnel' referring to people who commuted into Manhattan from either Brooklyn or Queens Boroughs; or from northern new Jersey. She had attended a good school. She had options, yes lots of options; yet she chose police work. The loss of someone very close to her had driven her to make that choice in life. Kate had become more dumbfounded as his narrative unfolded. . . 'and that Kate Beckett . . . is why you are here' he had concluded. The observers in that observation room adjacent to the interrogation box had talked about it for days afterward. She had accused him of being frivolous but further analysis of his remarks showed them to be full of the obvious double entendre, but then still later, even triple entendre. The general feeling in the department was that the case had been easily solved. Castle had become convinced that it had been too easy - they had the wrong man. Rather Castle had gotten into Kate's head and finessed additional effort from her to further the investigation. To both Montgomery's and Whitefield's surprise Castle had been right. Whitefield been formally introduced to Richard Castle after the Mayor of NYC had called the police commissioner, who had in turn called the 12th precinct and spoken to both Montgomery and Whitefield on two separate calls. Castle had eagerly signed the 'indemnify and hold harmless' legal paper work that prevented him, his immediate family, any distant relatives, extended family, ex-wives, or any current acquaintances, or anyone else on planet earth from suing the city or any of the NYPD employees in the event of any injuries, hardships, mental anguish or death experienced in the course of his participation in solving crimes or offering consulting services to the NYPD in the solving of such crimes. So, from then on, the 12th was hosting an untrained, rambunctious, civilian consultant who helped crack cases by unravelling the life stories of suspects leading up to the murder rather than back-tracking the evidence trail leading back to the murderer. His motive for donating all this free time and energy was to gather research for his next series of books. The pure motive became complex as time had elapsed. They had all seen it. Montgomery had kept his second in command informed with regular briefings. In the past six to seven weeks an unwritten rule had been established on Montgomery's side of the office. No one dared compare a present situation with past a situation that involved Castle's modus operandi. Anyone who absentmindedly broke that rule by starting a sentence with "Well, Ca . . ." would receive a sharp poke in the ribs from his or her immediate partner, especially if the incomplete verbalization occurred within earshot of Kate Beckett. Then there would be an abrupt rephrasing of the intended sentence. Ed Whitefield didn't hesitate to break that rule.
"Too bad Castle isn't around to offer some fresh, off-the-wall, theories", he quipped.
"Yes, Sir . . . well he's not," replied Kate rather curtly.
"Where is he anyway . . . is he out on a vacation or something?" he pried.
"You could say that sir."
"When that guy first showed up here, I would have been the last person in the department to admit it . . . but he's a good thinker; a real asset to this department."
"Yes sir, I couldn't agree more," Kate gave the politically correct reply.
"Detective . . ." Whitefield said as he looked directly at her, ". . . he's been good for you. Heck, he's been good for this whole department. It's not the same around here, and you're not the same woman when he's away."
Kate looked somewhat shaken. "I don't follow you sir," she replied as matter-of-factly as she could.
"Detective listen to me . . . you're all about being professional . . . and that's very good. You're all business. He's all nonsense and positive and outgoing and fun . . . strike a balance for crying out loud. It's called work - life balance . . . don't you pay any attention to the training seminars that come with this job?"
"Sir, it's not like that at all," she shot back at him.
"Detective calm down" he replied soothingly, "I'm just saying, if you have something to prove . . . you don't have to do it twenty-four hours a day."
Kate was now really flustered. "Sir! I don't have anything to prove to anybody," she replied with her characteristic scowl firmly in place.
"Okay, Okay Detective . . . you don't have anything to prove. Yes, this job requires seriousness. It requires intensity. But not the continuous push you've been giving it. If it's your desire to stay with the NYPD, you'll have to adjust your outlook. Otherwise you're going to burn out."
"Sir let me . . ."
"No, detective . . . let me finish . . . I've seen too many good cops go down the same path. I know the end game. The end is a life in shambles, and the department lacking a once valuable resource. Nobody on the 4th floor of this building wants to see that happen to you Detective Beckett – nobody, not me, and certainly not your team."
Kate sat there, for once, without a reply.
"If nothing else, take it from an old man who has been there and done that, because you certainly don't listen to the younger men . . . we care about you Detective Beckett."
"Anything else sir?" she inquired weakly.
"No detective. Just try to relax a bit," he said as he was getting up to leave.
The scowl had left her face and Kate was glad the little exchange had concluded. She looked back at the chair. The seat cushion was returning to its un-sat-in state. The room felt hot as she choked down a lump in her throat. So many things felt so wrong all at once. She felt drained. Don't you dare cry, she silently commanded herself. It would just be another stick on the pile of the day's failures and shortcomings. She hated days like the one she was having so far. The Lieutenant was right about one thing though. She needed some balance. Kate weighed her current options but there weren't too many from which to choose.
Perhaps just a change of pace and route home might do some good. She figured it certainly couldn't hurt. All the spring fashion items were now on sale, being replaced by what the designers considered the 'look' for summer. She decided to make a couple of rounds at some of her favorite clothing shops on the way home. With the way the day had been going already, she was planning on an early quitting time. Kate thought back to that summer between her junior and senior year in high school. Her mother was no longer around to advise her on job selections. She certainly did not wish to wait on tables at some bistro, or worse yet, some chain restaurant. That summer she had successfully landed a position in fashion modelling. It had proved to be harder than it looked. The pace was ridiculously quick. It might have had some bearing on the pacing she applied to her current job. At any rate, the position, thankfully, was only temporary, but reasonably well paying. It also proved another thing about Kate. She liked wearing fashionable clothes a whole lot more than shopping for them. But a shopping outing was overdue. She managed to kill three hours and put the day's previous affairs completely out of her mind for the time being. For her efforts, she scored a nice sun dress, and two other work place outfits. And with most everybody out of the office, she would only have to listen to the 'oh look who's been shopping' refrain from Lanie and possibly a couple of the clerks.
It was public knowledge around the precinct that Beckett's idea of a good evening was to get out those dirty work clothes, which sometimes got really dirty; take a long, hot bath; sip some good wine during said bath time; and delve into a good novel. She figured on exercising that option after the evening's shopping and dining options; only on this evening the bath would be just warm because of the weather. Up to this point she had been a big fan of Castle's works; but she decided that for now it would be something by Patterson, Castle's nemesis. Her last stop was a bookshop not too far from her apartment. The owner knew her from numerous past visits. She was surprised, but said nothing, as Kate selected a copy of James Patterson's Alex Cross. It had come out about fall of the previous year, Kate couldn't remember exactly. Like some others among Patterson's fans, she had taken a couple of years off from reading his series, after the release of some not so thrilling installments. But now it was time to do some catching up.
Also, on her list of options was hanging out with Lanie and some of the other more prominent females on the NYPD force; even a couple from one of the precincts further uptown. Hanging out with Lanie was definitely good for Kate. Kate's hot baths might have been physically relaxing, but Lanie's mental therapy coupled with imbibing alcohol also helped in the unwinding process. Lanie could spend hours unscrambling the internal mess that was part of Kate's life. Not that Lanie had some pent-up ambition to play 'Ann Landers' or psychoanalyst; she was a good friend of Kate's and just plain cared about how her best girlfriend felt most of the time. Only on this particular evening, Kate wanted to be by herself and Lanie wasn't available anyway. No sense in dredging up more shop talk and frustrations generated by the NYPD. Her dose of that had been more than adequate for the day.
She was careful. She had managed to limit herself to only a half a bottle of merlot that evening. The wines coming out of Washington State for the past couple of years had been tremendously satisfying for the prices she paid, and she had enjoyed every sip. For some reason she couldn't really start into the book, by page six she went nodding off to sleep. The next morning, she arose and got ready for work as usual. Her head was clear; and her mood had improved somewhat. The day drifted by as clues to the George Herbert Reeves murder case remained elusive and no significant progress was made. At least the office had a few more people in it than the day before. Again, she sneaked out in the early afternoon, before the commuter traffic really got bad. She decided to change things up a bit more for the evening. She called her father to see what his schedule was. It had been a while and she owed him a visit.
One thing that was not public knowledge to anyone was Kate's encounter with a new man in her life. Even Lanie was excluded this time around. She had met him purely in passing. Kate made good on her plans to go back home and visit her father. She busied herself with preparing a good, home cooked meal for the two of them. They talked and caught up on things while having a quiet dinner together. It was still light outside when they finished cleaning up. They took a walk out to the back yard; and in so doing she remembered her motorcycle in the shed. Her father was also known to take a short spin on it from time to time; to her delight, she found it in fair condition, the tires were adequately inflated, the oil had been changed a couple of months back, and the gas left in the tank was not stale. It started right up after a couple of cranks. She jockeyed it out into the driveway, got on, and headed off down the street for a few blocks and completed the lap around the local neighborhood. It felt good, like old times. On one hand she wished she could just slide back into those old times where her life was simpler than at present; but on the other hand, she didn't want to go back there where the pain of her mother's death, compounded by her father's slide into alcoholism, would have been the dark clouds overshadowing her life. She dropped the thought and turned her full attention back to the pleasant evening ride. That was the great thing about NYC. One could show up via subway or taxi, yet leave in a limo, or perhaps a motorcycle. She made a quick stop back at her father's place, said her goodbyes, and donned a helmet and light riding jacket. She had decided to lengthen her ride and wanted to be properly equipped for it. It turned into quite a romp. She wound her way through the southern part of Queens, then through part of Brooklyn heading towards Manhattan via the Brooklyn Bridge. She continued on and roared by 1-Police Plaza (1-PP was how they'd refer to it at the office), made a couple of turns and found herself on Bowery Ave heading uptown. As she was waiting for the traffic light at Grand Street, she looked to her right and noticed another motorcycle rider pulling out of the Hospital complex. The light turned but the traffic was proceeding very slowly for some reason. She pushed on toward Broome Street. Much to her surprise she met the same rider at the Broome Street intersection. They each gave the motorcycle riders' wave of acknowledgement. Regardless of the helmets and motorcycle garb, she could tell he was a well-built guy; and he in turn could tell she was a well-built gal. Almost automatically she made a mental note of the bike description and the license plate number. Unlike the average woman in NYC, she had a very convenient means to find someone's identity just by the transportation they employed.
She had experienced enough fun for the evening. Besides she now had material for another plan later in the week; or so she hoped. It was time to get the bike out of the city and get back home. She remained at the light. Her mystery rider headed west on Broome Street. She decided to follow him at a distance if that would prove to be possible. When the light turned she also made a left on Broome Street after a couple of quick maneuvers and the courtesy of a couple of drivers behind her. She figured the courtesy afforded by those male drivers had something to do with the view of her backside. After a couple of blocks she completely lost sight of the other rider. He had vanished behind a couple of trucks and a knot of taxis. She turned right on Mulberry Street. This was taking her back toward the 12th precinct house in just a few more blocks. No way. She finally made it to Kenmare Street where she made a right turn and headed onward toward the Williamsburg Bridge. Kenmare ended in a ramp to Delancey Street, which formed the entrance road to the bridge. Now she was heading east southeast again. She crossed over just one block north of the intersection where she had just met her fellow rider a few minutes earlier. The road went up and over the green space; then onward over the southeast Manhattan business district. As she crossed over Ridge Street below, she could just make out the top of the building between Ridge and Pitt streets, which housed the NYPD 7th precinct. All appeared quiet in the back parking lot. She continued over FDR Drive and the East River Promenade and crossed the East River. It was now past 9:00 PM and the sun was completely gone. She headed back to her father's place to drop off the motorcycle and catch a more conventional means of transportation back into Manhattan.
The next morning, back at the 12th precinct, things were returning to the normal pace. The 4th floor was significantly more occupied than the previous few days. Esposito was at his desk when she entered. She didn't yet know of Ryan's whereabouts. One of the other homicide teams had someone in the box and yet another one being processed for the holding cells. It looked like it was becoming a busy morning. She headed toward the break room to prepare her morning coffee. She approached the machine – Castle's gift to the homicide department. As the coffee brewed, she wondered what had become of him. On her way back to her desk, she dropped the thought, deciding not to let an empty chair bother her today. She sat down at her desk and began the morning routine. She checked her voice messages. One posted by one of the clerks reporting out regarding a lead; and one from Lanie. Lanie had finished her arduous task that had occupied the past three days. She wanted to know if Kate was free for a lunch date. Kate made a mental note to get back to her. She logged on to the computer and started checking if there were any new entries regarding the Reeves murder case. A new posting stated that traffic cam video files were ready. Esposito had seen it too.
He took that opportunity to confront Kate. He backed his rolling office chair out into the aisle, turned it in the right direction, and gave himself an impulse with his foot. It was a well-practiced maneuver, which sent him heading toward Kate's desk, with the chair stopping almost exactly beside hers. Kate figured Javier wanted to invite her to review the traffic cam video; a boring procedure that was better executed using two pairs of eyes and someone to talk with.
"So, I heard you got a visit from Whitefield yesterday," he began.
Kate was surprised. The person in the break room must have turned into a spy and blabbed something about the encounter.
"Yes, we talked," she replied already somewhat flustered.
She was suddenly growing angry about how much of the conversation might have been overheard.
"Did he say anything about our . . . Um . . . 'consultant'?" Javier went on to inquire.
"Well, yes . . . and No . . . look Espo, what we talked about isn't really anybody else's business, okay? Anyway, there is no news about Castle, if that's what you mean."
Esposito looked puzzled and changed the subject.
"Okay, are you ready to see if there's any evidence we can glean from that traffic cam?"
He got up, rolled his chair back to his desk, and they both went to the viewing and video enhancement room. They began the playback. Most of it was like watching grass grow in Central Park. The camera was located at an intersection and aimed down the block of a side street where the average NYC occupant went to bed at a reasonable hour. Kate hit the pause button and changed the screen to the reports mode. She selected the folder for the city examiner's reports. Dr. Perlmutter's report indicated the time of death to have been within a two-hour window starting around 11:30 PM the night of the murder. They switched back to the video file and ran a fast forward to around the 11:00 PM time stamp. They paused it again and checked the camera clock time against the current time by accessing its web address through one of the city's traffic cam servers. The time stamp was only a second or two off – certainly close enough for their purposes. There was some footage before their assumed window of interest; however, it seemed to be obstructed by a bat or something fluttering around the camera lens and blurring the view. The tow truck of interest was already parked, but nothing was moving. They continued reviewing the video of the nearly empty street at several times normal speed. If or when any action was noted, they would back it up a little and play it in real time. Mr. Reeves walked up to his tow truck at about the 11:20 PM time stamp. They continued to watch as Mr. Reeves, still alive and well, went about preparing to tow one of the cars parked on the side street. The light was not in their favor. By this time a video tech had joined them, so at their request, she stopped the playback, extracted the frame, and loaded it into a video image enhancement program and zoomed in about ten times. There was a plate visible but very fuzzy. She started one of the more basic focus and image sharpening algorithms, but it wasn't quite good enough so, she tried a more sophisticated program, which did the trick. Plate number 5K7-6655 came into view. It was a NY plate. Kate took the number down herself. Esposito found that a little unusual. She would normally have either Ryan or him pursue that kind of a lead. The tech saved the enhanced image and printed a hard copy of it for the paper file they would use when in the interrogation room. They continued with the playback. About ten minutes later another car appeared and pulled up to where Mr. Reeves was working; then two men jumped out, grabbed Mr. Reeves by force, and stuffed him into their car. Fortunately, they forgot about such things as traffic cams and left their headlights on. The camera had no problem recording the illuminated rear license plate: 9Z6-8898, also from NY. Kate took note of that one also.
Things really didn't add up. Mr. Reeves apparently had been abducted and taken for a joy ride. So how did he end up dead inside his own tow truck? Did they bring him back, and if so, why would they risk returning to the original crime scene? They continued reviewing the file, noting no further activity other than a passing car or two until about 6:20 AM. A man appeared on the sidewalk and proceeded quickly to the car that was still attached to the tow truck cable. He looked it over and took out his cell phone. A few minutes later another man appeared and helped the first man unhook the tow cable, and the two of them got into the car that would have been repossessed and drove off with it. Were they the same two men who abducted Mr. Reeves? It was hard to tell, but if they were, the video indicated that they were smart enough to have changed their clothes between the two visits to the scene. At any rate, there was no further evidence that anyone deposited Mr. Reeves back into the cab of his tow truck. The tech was going to need the better part of the day to process the numerous frames they had extracted for analysis. Hopefully there would be enough visual information to generate some more leads. At least the license plate information would get them started in the meantime. Clearly, they had to get someone to download another couple of days' worth of video from that traffic cam.
Kate rounded up Ryan and sent him along with Esposito back out to cover the crime scene. All of them knew it would be rather contaminated by now; nevertheless, they wanted to check and see if anything had been dropped from any of the cars or any object of interest otherwise missed by the CSU. Such things often wound up in the gutter and could be easily confused with just normal city littering activity. With the two of them out of the way, Kate walked down to one of the assistant detective's desks and asked her to run some plate numbers for full information. There were two cars and one motorcycle.
About two hours later Kate received a post regarding the DMV search files she had requested. She sent copies of the two files regarding the murder case to both Ryan and Esposito. The motorcycle file she kept for herself. She studied the DMV photo. A dark haired, handsome man, age thirty-two, six feet and two inches tall, and a hundred and ninety pounds; that is if one could trust the data entered by the applicant. The photo seemed to confirm the data. Name: Josh R. Davidson. Kate studied the face. He looked every bit as ruggedly handsome as Castle; and at least she knew where this Josh could most likely be found. She took note of the home address. Her next problem was how to arrange a meeting that appeared to be a coincidence. She couldn't very well just show up at his high-rise apartment building in the Tribeca district with some lame excuse of just being in the neighborhood and dropping by to meet him. He might already be married, she reasoned that there were plenty of married men, with kids, who still found time to ride motorcycles.
Lunch date with Lanie, she recalled, reached for the phone, and dialed Lanie's extension. They made some plans, and to Kate's surprise, Lanie said she had to run an errand that involved the 7th precinct. She had extracted some hard evidence for their department and one of the detectives over there needed it ASAP. Normally, she would have just sent it via internal courier but since they were going out anyway it would be a good excuse to cruise the city. Kate couldn't have agreed more. She checked her watch – 11:15. No time like the present she figured; consequently, she gathered up her things, took the elevator down to the basement and walked down the tunnel corridor that connected to the adjoining department of the city examiner's offices. She met Lanie who was in the process of making herself ready for public appearance.
"Got your stuff," she quipped, ". . . then let's go."
Lanie's radar switched on. "Girl, you seem to be in a big hurry to get somewhere," Lanie replied.
"I am" effused Kate, "I'm hungry."
Lanie studied Kate's expression and her body language.
"Sure you are," Lanie sighed.
They continued out of the examination area, up the stairs, and out the rear entrance to the police department motor pool. Kate signed out a car and they were on their way.
"So, what is it Lanie . . . delivery first and then lunch . . . or the other way around?" questioned Kate, trying to read Lanie's mood.
"Let's just get this over to assistant Detective Grainger, and then we can relax."
They finally made it over to Pitt Street. Kate waited in the car while Lanie ran in and made the delivery. She returned with a signed receipt in hand. Kate had taken the brief respite to plan her next moves. They worked their way out of the 7th's jurisdiction westward into the next precinct. Kate found Grand Street and continued westbound. They finally arrived at the intersection with City Hospital in Chinatown.
If her mystery rider had only been a visitor to the hospital that day, then visitor parking was in a multi-level underground area and street surveillance would be useless. She scanned the side lot reserved for hospital employees. There it was! Kate proceeded slowly, trying to keep her eyes on the road ahead, but at the same time, making sure the motorcycle she had spotted was indeed the same one belonging to her mystery rider.
"What are you looking at so intently?" asked Lanie.
"Nice bike," said Kate in an offhand way.
"Girl tell me you're not starting that phase again . . . I thought you had given yours up."
"Kind of . . . "it's at my dad's place."
Lanie's radar scan intensified. "Uh huh," she let it out soft and slow so as to make sure Kate would take notice.
Kate noticed but offered no additional clues as to her personal agenda.
"Well, we are in Chinatown", she finally replied, "shall we do the obvious for lunch . . . or are you in the mood for something else?"
Lanie said the obvious choice would be fine with her. They miraculously found a parking spot and ducked into the cool darkness of a little sit-down place with about a dozen tables. A few moments later the place was full of diners taking their lunches. The food was authentic but the service just a little bit slow. Blame could not be placed on anyone in particular since the venue was up to capacity. They split the lunch bill and got ready to go back to work. Lanie said she needed to stop off at the little girls' room. Kate said they could meet at the car while automatically checking the time finding that it was already near 1:30 PM, and she was surprised the phone wasn't ringing with inquires as to her whereabouts. Still staring at the screen on the phone, she absentmindedly turned to go down the sidewalk and bump! She had walked right into someone's path – not all that uncommon in a city crammed with about eight and a half million people.
"Excuse me, I'm so sorry," exclaimed a male voice.
"No, it was completely my fault," stammered Kate as she looked at the man she had just inconvenienced.
She immediately choked back a gasp. The man had dark hair and was very good looking. Furthermore, he was carrying a tote bag and a motorcycle helmet in his left hand. From what little she could quickly scan, the contents of the tote bag suggested something to do with the medical profession. Oh God! She thought to herself; please don't let Lanie show up right now.
"Hey, I think I might have seen you the other evening," she broke the ice with a truthful supposition.
"Really?" came the reply.
"I'm sorry . . . my name's Kate," she offered as part of the awkward introduction, "you don't happen to ride a Ducati – Monster 750 do you?" she asked as innocently as possible.
The man had noticed the NYPD shield clipped to Kate's waistband.
"Yes, I happen to ride that model," he replied in a guarded way. "Am I in trouble of some kind?"
Kate figured he had noticed the badge.
"No, not at all . . . I was the other rider on that old, mid-nineties model Harley Davidson who waved to you," she tried to sound matter-of-fact.
The man's face brightened. He remembered for a certainty. All of the sudden this seemed to be his lucky day.
"Hi, I'm Josh," he introduced himself as friendly as could be.
With that Kate was assured she was talking to the right guy. Meanwhile people were going around them on the crowded sidewalk like water swirling around rocks in a streambed.
"Maybe we could go out for a ride sometime," she coyly suggested, "here's my card."
"Yeah, maybe we could," he replied with a broad smile. "Well, I've got to get back to work," he said as he turned to go.
She watched him continue along his way.
"What was all that about?" pried Lanie who had just exited the restaurant.
"Oh nothing . . . I was acting dumb and bumped into him . . . so an apology was in order," replied Kate.
"Mmmm, he looks like the kind I'd like to bump into again," Lanie teased.
Kate agreed. On the way back to the precinct Lanie tried to pump her for more information but nothing doing. When that didn't work, Lanie switched to the roundabout method. She started talking about her vacation plans for the last week in August. If Kate didn't have any plans, then maybe they could catch one of those short summer cruises to Nova Scotia or even one of those short cruises to 'nowhere'. During a break in the conversation Kate allowed herself to mentally entertain just one more Castle-ism. Maybe the Universe was trying to tell her something this time. She was pretty sure she did not want to defy the wishes of the Universe. Who would have thought . . . she wondered, with odds as high as the population of NYC . . . a chance meeting like that had to be the Universe talking.
The work week dragged on. Friday finally arrived, and with it the maddening realization that the Reeves murder case was still going nowhere. They had reviewed many more hours of traffic cam video following the abduction but with no clear-cut evidence. Whoever sneaked the deceased Mr. Reeves back into the cab of his own tow truck had been very careful about it. Meanwhile the case load was starting to pile up. It looked like Mr. Reeves' mystery murderer was going to adversely affect the team's closure score. What was worse; neither of the cars with the license plates they recorded had turned up anywhere despite a bulletin across the NYPD network to report a sighting and location immediately. It was just after 2:30 PM when Kate's desk phone rang. Both Esposito and Ryan were out in the field. She assumed it might be one of them. The screen indicated an unidentified caller. She answered it. The voice asked:
"Is this Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD?"
"Yes, this is she. How can I help you?"
The male voice sounded as if its owner was exhausted.
"Ms. Beckett, this is Josh," the voice continued.
"Josh? . . . You sound terrible . . . is everything alright?" she answered with a couple of questions.
"Yes, I'm fine . . . I just got out of surgery," he replied without much inflection.
"You what?" asked Kate.
"Oh, I'm sorry . . . that must have sounded funny . . . I'm a heart surgeon" he continued, "I just finished a seven-hour procedure, and we frankly don't know if the patient is going to make it . . . but I'm done . . . I just need to get out of here," he concluded.
"Oh, now I see . . . I'm sorry to hear of this," she said, trying to sound as understanding as possible.
She was more befuddled than understanding at that moment.
"Listen Kate, I know this is a long shot but perhaps we could meet for dinner someplace later this evening . . . I mean, with the kind of jobs the two of us have . . . some downtime would be nice . . . don't you think?" he rambled.
Apparently, the Universe had been talking. Kate thanked the Universe.
"Please hold on just a moment Josh, I'll be right with you," she said.
She put him on hold and then looked around the office carefully to make sure Lanie wasn't coming down the aisle; and that no other personnel were too close for comfort. She reconnected with her caller.
"Just checked my schedule," she stated flatly, "what did you have in mind?"
They had agreed to meet at the Osteria Morini Restaurant over on Lafayette Street. It was a small, rustic place so they hoped getting reservations would not become complicated or even necessary. Neither of them wanted any further complications for the week. Kate had heard of the place and decided it was worth a try. After all, this it was just dinner being shared by two tired professionals. It could have been pizza and beer for all she cared at the moment. Josh said he was heading home for a power nap and general recuperation. He would meet her there at 7:30 PM. Good, she thought, that would also give her plenty of time to get ready.
"Can I reach you at this number if there are any problems?" she inquired.
"Yes, this is my mobile phone," he replied. "Hope to see you there – bye," he concluded.
She searched for a reason to leave the office before something could happen that would result in an overtime situation. Those events had a bad habit of occurring on Friday nights. Little wonder as to why she had no social life. Just before making her exit, she confirmed that the restaurant was very convenient to the Spring Street subway station. She decided that was the way to go. She might find her way back home via the subway or via motorcycle, depending on how the evening went.
Everything went according to plan. They were seated by 7:50 PM. Both of them passed on the Italian vintages and went for a Washington State wine. Well, at least they now had three things in common she thought. She hoped he wasn't a boor; that was something neither money nor education could automatically cure. The second glasses of wine helped loosen their tongues and she talked mostly about her job and he talked mostly about his near-term goals. Working in the city was fine but he didn't want to be stuck there. He expected to get into the 'Doctors Without Borders' volunteer program later in the fall, which sounded like a good deal since travel had always interested him. She also learned that he wasn't married, nor had he ever been. She figured that the demands of medical school had kept his slate clean. For two people in such demand, it was amazing that their phones did not ring the whole evening. Kate related a couple of good experiences on her job. Josh found them quite amusing and appeared sincerely interested in her activity. Around 10:30 PM they called it a night. They agreed that the evening had been pleasant and relaxing, just as promised; and that they needed to find an opportunity to repeat it. She returned home on the subway rather than on the back of a motorcycle, but they had exchanged private phone numbers at least. She decided to take a chance on him a few more times. As she returned to street level from the subway stop nearest her apartment, she could hear the faint refrain of Mungo Jerry's In the Summertime coming from a Caribbean grocery down the block. Maybe her summer was going to improve after all.
